


Mind Your Own Business

by MayorMimi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bonding, Comedy, Dessert & Sweets, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Halamshiral (Dragon Age), Humor, One Shot, Teasing, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayorMimi/pseuds/MayorMimi
Summary: Accounts of occurrences in Halamshiral in which Leliana puts Cole's abilities to use, Dorian comes to Cullen's rescue, and Kieran has his own little adventure while his mother's away. Three instances of do-gooders choosing to help others rather than mind one's own business.
Relationships: Cole & Leliana (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Mind Your Own Business

Nothing was to be gained from the ballroom for the following few minutes. That much proved evident to Leliana when the Inquisitor left her with a brief list of blackmail material before setting off to fish for more. None of the guests harbored enough admiration or, if nothing else, respect for her Inquisitor to hold a conversation longer than a few moments with Leliana. With higher nobility came more carefully guarded secrets, and even with her nightingale eyes, Leliana struggled to produce sufficient material to keep negotiations afloat. Deciding it couldn’t hurt to leave her spot and hunt a bit herself, Leliana returned to the vestibule and gave it a once-over.

Her pursuit brought her to a pair of doors that had been curiously left wide open despite its remoteness from the party. She wandered in, finding herself at the threshold of the dingy grand library where rows of shelves sandwiched unoccupied tables. The noise of chatter and the blazing chandeliers felt distant in that dim, silent room. Leliana elected to return to the ballroom; she never intended to be gone for long and there was clearly nothing of interest to be found in a vacant library. That was until she discovered a tall figure in a suit like hers leaning over the railing, whose flaxen head of hair gave away his identity. “Cole?”

“There isn’t any merit in searching. The Inquisitor has been through here.”

“I was on my way back, in any case.” She paused, then returned her line of sight to him. Leliana approached the railing and peered over it in search of what he was staring at. “Something caught your eye?”

“They didn’t expect to be seen.”

“Who didn’t?”

“A brief tryst in the hall of heroes. I heard whispers when the echoes brought their voices to me. Can’t be caught together, Lady Bellefeuille said.” Cole’s eyes remained steady on the statue against which her lover had kissed her. Leliana leaned closer, sensing her trip could turn into a fruitful one. “Lord Charbonneau agreed to rendezvous with her at midnight lest his lady discovers the two.”

“So, you’ve been spying?”

He paused sheepishly, then shook his head. “Spying’s done purposefully. I stood only and observed…by coincidence. It’s not as if I can stop them from speaking around me.”

Leliana turned that detail over in her mind, considering. An idea struck her. “Instead of skulking here, why not put your skills of observation to use?” Cole glanced up at Leliana for the first time in the course of their exchange expecting clarification. She only returned to the library doors and gestured for him to follow.

“I have a few targets on whom I’d like you to keep your eyes. Listen in on their thoughts, if you can,” she whispered during their stroll through the vestibule. Leliana made it a point to walk close to him; he appeared less like a stray dog to the other guests that way. “If you intend to eavesdrop, it may as well benefit the Inquisition.”

He opened the ballroom door for her. “If it helps.”

“Do it right and it will. Three guests in the room are key figures with whom I had intended to speak. Negotiate deals, to be exact. I have planned how I’ll approach them, but I’m certain having you will solidify my attempts.” As she said this, the same emotion overcame Cole he would sense from the puppies back at Skyhold when they’ve been pet.

The ballroom swallowed the two as the crowd separated them. It took a moment for Leliana to find Cole’s head floating among the feathered hats and fabric flowers. She squeezed herself into cracks formed by any two guests that weren’t nose-to-nose as gracefully as she could manage before patting Cole’s hand and leading him by the arm. The two found her original spot again and scanned the rest of the room from there. Leliana had her eyes set on the Comtesse, who had previously been in the courtyard encircled by admiring noblemen until she broke away from the ring and slipped discreetly to the ballroom—it’d only be a matter of time until Leliana would be able to corner her for a tête-à-tête. “How’s the Comtesse there? The one in the sapphire mask.”

“Three glasses in, bare backs and soft sighs.” His murmurs were hardly audible over the melodies of the theorbos and harpsichord. “Stares on me, curious yet quaint. Where’s Jean Luc?”

“What’s all this about?”

“She feels out of her skull, the worse for wear,” explained Cole. “The soul of others’ studies. Her pride feeds on it.”

“That isn’t much of an explanation,” muttered Leliana, half to herself. “Never mind, then. Who’s this Jean-Luc?”

“She refuses to think of him any further. I can’t hear more than that.”

“Now, that’s no use...”

“I don’t--I can’t quite understand here. Everyone’s loud. They’re not saying anything in particular.”

She felt her optimism slide to the floor. Perhaps Leliana was wrong to expect anything of Cole. She supposed there was no wisdom to be found in consulting a spirit with no grasp of the game or its players. This brought her back to square one, only now she had a sheepdog hanging around and frightening any guest that notices. Leliana elected to turn her attention away from the boy toward her remaining targets.

Near them stood Lord Eudes Chevrolet, a renowned wyvern hunter both feared and adored. The third target was Lady Gabriella Archambeault, who had been whispering to the Comtesse behind an ornate fan and tossing glances to the marchioness standing not too far off. Leliana’s eyes drifted to her shoes—silver heels speckled with little amethysts glistening in the candlelight. “Hm.”

Before approaching them, she produced a gilded compact mirror from the leather reticule on her belt and made a quick study of herself in it from different angles. Leliana snapped it shut with a hand before sliding it back into the reticule. “No,” whispered Cole out of the blue, “your new lace gown or favorite old freshwater-pearl hairpin wouldn’t have made a difference.”

It took Leliana a moment to realize whose thoughts had turned his attention. “I’m not who I brought you here for,” she dismissed him in a cool tone.

“You look fine, though you don’t feel that way.”

“This ball’s one of business, not pleasure. I’m in uniform, and whatever objections I’ve had, I intend to keep to myself.” His line of sight shifted from the Comtesse to Leliana as she spoke. “I don’t appreciate protests being drawn out of me.” She looked as tranquil as ever.

“Sky-high feathers on ladies drowning in cartwheel ruffs, chiffon ribbons and layers of crepe. I—I don’t know where to look; I’ve more focus staring into a kaleidoscope. But your face alone pulls eyes of praise and envy. Eyes like honey bees to nectar. Robins to elderberries.”

“…Hm.” A ghost of a smile surfaced. “You’re not so bad yourself—out of your hat.”

“I like my hat,” Cole responded, sounding almost hurt. At this, Leliana concealed a brief chuckle with the back of her gloved hand. “Ah,” his voice brightened again, “that’s the first time you smiled, tonight.”

“You ought to have seen me addressing the viscount, then. My cheeks are still sore.”

“I meant it’s the first time tonight you smiled for yourself.”

“…Perhaps.” An elf appeared before them who Leliana recognized. It was the server from whom she’d requested a glass of merlot wine after exchanging greetings with one of her three targets; the person in question ordered one for himself or herself. Which guest, in the confusion of the crowd, she couldn’t remember. Leliana nevertheless accepted the glass with a nod and an appreciative smile to the elf, before raising it to her lips.

“The drink’s not alone,” warned Cole as his hand brushed her shoulder. She froze, listening. “Only sweetness belongs in your glass, but ill intentions have accompanied it.”

“From whom?”

“The man with the large arms and larger voice.” Her eyes followed his to Lord Chevrolet, who has yet to receive his own drink. “He stepped purposefully to knock into the elf and slip harm into your drink. ‘Carry on sipping—stain those peach lips crimson—you won’t be in that suit for long.’ He isn’t looking now, but he intends to ‘check’ on you in a moment.”

“Good to know.” Leliana waved towards another elf who had just served macaroons to the Comtesse and was on his way back to the kitchen. Leliana quietly intercepted his path and whispered, “Pardon me.” Cole watched her ‘inform’ the servant the glass had been delivered to her mistakenly. “I believe Lord Chevrolet’s expecting this,” she concluded.

The elf bowed his head several times and apologized profusely before scurrying off to the lord with his glass. She turned to him, face glowing with contentment and a hint of devilry. “I appreciate the tip-off.”

“If it isn’t honey, it doesn’t belong in your drink.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Leliana bit into the treat she had swiped from the tray. She presented a second pastry like it to Cole. “Tart?”

If ever there was a point in Cullen’s life where he empathized most with a rabbit cornered by lynxes, it was during his evening in Halamshiral. Men and women alike fenced him in as they tormented Cullen with questions not asking for answers but only for him to speak. He learned this the hard way after insisting to no end he’d been taken. It may have been a lie, but they didn’t know that nor did they have any reason to suspect. It piqued him that wasn’t enough to keep a woman from pinching his behind—as if the man badgering him for a dance wasn’t vexing enough.

Nevertheless, Cullen promised Josephine he’d mind himself. If anything, she hammered manners into the rest more than she did him owing to the fact that Cullen already had her trust. His reputation for self-control leashed him in, but the highborns seemed to enjoy testing that. How Josephine could tolerate sitting inside twelve hours a day keeping company with the likes of them over tea remained to be one of Thedas’s greatest unsolved mysteries, second only to the origins of dark spawn. He folded his arms before him as his only barrier between himself and the strangers pressing up to him with their nauseating perfumes of tuberose and jasmine.

Cullen shifted his weight as the others spoke, favoring one leg after the other, then tapped his foot manically while responding. Sometimes he’d catch his mouth fall open to dispute one of the guests before he’d draw a deep breath and click it back shut into a tight smile. He initially hoped they wouldn’t notice his clenched jaw or hands until his sentiments shifted and he anticipated his theatrical sighs would get the message through their thick skulls. His attempts had been fruitless, and it didn’t seem as if anybody planned on lending a hand either.

Occasionally, the Inquisitor would pass by after speaking to Leliana, give him an apologetic look, then vanish into the crowd again—and nothing more. Leliana herself seemed to be occupied with one of the Inquisitor’s companions, though Cullen couldn’t pinpoint who. Other than those two, nobody recognizable or seeming to possess a shred of compassion stood in sight. That was until, in a sea of puffed sleeves and cloud-like skirts, Dorian appeared.

Bumping into a familiar face startled Dorian after a long stroll filled with masks, masks, and more masks still. He looked between the men and women trapping Cullen then back at him, making a show of furrowing his brows and cocking his head as if to ask: “Who’re these friends of yours?”

Cullen shrugged, subtly so only Dorian could catch it. When it dawned on Dorian what the situation was, he snorted and caught a chortle before it bubbled up his throat. Cullen somehow found the gesture more vexing than any of his keen admirers—he imagined Dorian had it far easier as a Tevinter mage shunned by the rest of the guests, a situation preferable to his company. The mage himself mouthed to Cullen, “Enjoy.” Then, he made a show of bowing his head and gradually taking his leave before Cullen’s amusingly desperate expression stopped him in his tracks.

Dorian paused and looked to Cullen with comically wide eyes, pressing his index finger to his chest as a manner of asking: “You want my help?” Cullen vehemently nodded, seeming to the nobles to be a gesture of passionate agreement when one of the ladies present—listing her husband’s faults—called him a freeloader. Dorian pantomimed long, pensive consideration while the commander tried not to squirm. He supposed going out of his way to rescue an ally might as well be entertaining.

“Cullen, amatus!” Dorian cried in a voice shriller than a maiden having a spell. Cullen nearly bolted out of his polished boots before the remaining guests snapped towards Dorian. The women present regarded him through slanted eyes like lionesses evaluating potential prey. Dorian clutched onto Cullen’s arm with a grip like a vise, proceeding, “Where have you been?”

“Dor—Dorian?”

“Ah, I see you’ve made yourself some friends.” Dorian looked between the admirers with coying fondness as he wrapped an arm around Cullen’s waist. “Isn’t that lovely?”

“What are you—?”

“Having a drink, of course. I was having a drink in the courtyard when it occurred to me you’ve wandered off again. Honestly, you’re hopeless.”

“Having a—?” Cullen paused, then lowered his voice. “Are you drunk?”

Dorian hissed in response: “What? No. Now you’ll have to act like I said something scandalous.”

“Huh?”

“Do you want out or not?” Dorian wore the closest he could manage to a roguish smirk, though it looked stiff from where Cullen stood. “Roll with the punches.”

“Oh, you rascal,” Cullen responded in a loud, although trembling, voice. He looked between the baffled crowd and asked, “Have I not mentioned my beloved to any of you, yet?”

“You never mentioned you were seeing a mage,” a woman’s voice dropped with repulsion.

A man in an ermine collar examined Dorian’s features behind the slits of his mask, recognizing his midnight dark hair and sharp, turned-down nose anywhere. “A ’vint, no less.”

“We’ve kept it hush-hush for about a month, but…”

“He can’t help himself sometimes.” A thin, reedy laugh escaped Dorian, placing Cullen under the impression he was a child having supper with his parents—both the subject of a conversation and spoken over. As the guests dissolved into titters and guffaws, Dorian discreetly dragged Cullen away from the ring towards the ballroom doors. “We can’t have them fishing around here for you, so let’s switch over to somewhere less crowded.” He removed his hand from his waist, before realizing his arm was still caught in the crook of Cullen’s elbow. “You can let go now.”

“Pardon me.”

The vestibule was emptier, though not clear enough for either of their liking. They pressed on until the crowd thinned and, past a cluster of dwarves, the two found themselves at a vacant library. “Ah, perfect,” remarked Dorian as he clapped his hands together. His thick gloves muffled the sound as Cullen took a seat between a pair of towering shelves.

“So, how do you intend to keep the pretense up?”

“I don’t. The relationship expires by the end of the night,” he answered in a quick, matter-of-fact tone. “If anyone asks after we leave Halamshiral, we’ve split.”

“Ah.”

“For the record, I left you.” Dorian flashed Cullen a more genuinely humorous grin than what he wore moments ago. “And we aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Of course.” Cullen rolled his eyes. “…In any event, I never thought I’d feel this overjoyed to find myself in a library.”

Dorian shrugged. “While I, in contrast, spend my mornings and evenings in Skyhold’s library…despite its paltry selection.”

“Well, I fail to see why we ought to direct our resources towards books,” disputed Cullen.

Dorian’s finger swept over the colorful spines of leather-bound books before he produced a box from between them. “Perhaps not. Perhaps the tomes here would be of no interest to you, either, but how does—” he settled the box onto the table before Cullen— “a round of chess sound?” Cullen considered the dusty set before him. “Or two?”

“So long as you don’t cheat.” He watched Dorian take a seat across from Cullen then cross his legs with breezy self-assurance.

“I promise to behave this time.” Dorian lifted his left hand and planted the right on his chest. He swiftly swapped the two.

Of the palace’s grand apartments, Morrigan had locked Kieran in an upper wing room. He felt perfectly content to spend the evening nibbling on puits d'amour and studying the Elven tongue by the fireside while his mother did whatever it was women did at soirées. The boy had dealings with Orlesian formal events and celebrations held by the Imperial Court in the past. When bringing him there, his mother may as well have been presenting an exotic pet due to the number of young noblewomen pinching his cheek and crying, “Why, Morrigan! He’s practically a replica of you. How darling!”

Kieran conducted himself well and was often invited alongside Morrigan, but made himself scarce whenever possible. He didn’t trust half the guests truly knew or liked his mother, in any case. Beyond picking out dresses with her, the boy had no interest in the frankly trivial game Orlesians played with each other.

Rising from his armchair, he went to fetch a book from the bedside drawer by a twin-sized canopy bed and the only one in the room. Kieran opened the drawer in search of his workbook beneath his wooden gryphon figure and replica soldier, before freezing upon catching the clambering drifting in from the veranda. He’d previously heard a few creaks and thumps from the neighboring bedroom that shared their balcony, though Morrigan would advise him to never mind such sounds at night—I’m sure they’re fine—while he supposed he wouldn’t be able to do much if anybody was in danger, either way. But at that particular moment, when the odd noise drew closer, Kieran couldn’t trust the innocuousness of the clamor. The bed obstructed his view of the balcony, though he made out two distinct voices directly outside his window. Kieran slammed the drawer shut and slid under the bed before he heard glass shatter.

Shards sprinkled the bedroom floor like large flakes of snow. From his perspective, the struggle between the two figures might’ve been taken for a dance owing to the motions of their feet had it not been for grunts and yelps, along with a bit of blood streaking onto the carpet. Whose blood, he couldn’t discern, especially when the shattered window breathed in gusts of biting wind that extinguished the fireplace embers. In the wintry dark, all Kieran could do was anxiously grip his father’s Warden’s Oath to his chest—pressed against his heartbeat—and stroke the emblem with a thumb. The babel was punctuated by a thud, then all fell silent.

Kieran turned his head towards the source of the dull clunk, before coming face-to-face with an elf laying a foot from him—her eyes frozen open and drilling holes into his. He clapped his hand over his mouth before a startled shriek could escape him. Scrambling away from the corpse, Kieran peered towards the sole pair of feet left standing and making their way back to the balcony. He angled his head to steal a glimpse at the silhouette of a man gripping daggers. Identifying the dead elf as one of the servants, Kieran gathered the intruder might be a thief plundering the palace wings while all its residents are distracted by the affair.

All but one. He slid out while the intruder’s back was turned towards him, then lifted the pillow from his mother’s side of the bed to produce the key to the bedside drawer by it. The howling wind and stirring of crows did well to conceal the upper drawer’s click as Kieran extracted from it its sole content: a black grimoire the Hero of Fereldan had given Morrigan. Better for him to hold onto it than for a likely experienced lock-picker to fish it out and sell it. With the book held to his chest, Kieran unlocked the bedroom door as quietly as he could manage, then slipped out.

The hallways of the grand apartments seemed wider when they were dingy and vacant, save for moonlight slanting in through its vast windows. Portraits of long-dead emperors stared down at him with such fixation he expected them to speak. Kieran then supposed he found the soft chatter of lords and ladies—however difficult they were to understand—preferable to the oppressive silence of an empty corridor. He almost missed their company. As if the Maker—or Andraste or whoever—heard his wish, he heard muffled voices echoing from the other end of the corridor.

Kieran could’ve sworn he caught distinct whispers coming from the shadows. Interrupting his hunt were the soft patters of feet from a party of four of which two men spotted him. The younger man in leather froze to stare at him between his curtain of blond hair like a mountain gazelle with ice for eyes. The older one, who bore an admirable mustache, furrowed his brows with perplexity at the thick, ebony grimoire hugged to the boy’s chest. To both of them, he pressed his index finger to his lips as a means of requesting that they don’t expose him to anyone else in the room.

The younger man nodded while his senior shrugged, supposing the son of some Orlesian noble or other was none of their concern, before their group pressed on.

Continuing to step gingerly over blood splatters and a few corpses, the boy proceeded in the opposite direction for the path to the courtyard or ballroom where he might find his mother. He passed by what felt like an endless row of doors during his hunt, which begged the question of how many inhabitants resided in the palace. Kieran had only seen the empress once and trusted from her appearance she was the sort of person to exclusively invite immediate family and her most trusted advisors. He couldn’t imagine a monarch carrying such an air of regality and splendor about her to let in just about anybody. If he remembered his Orlesian history correctly, it was what the palace was built for.

“According to Emperor Valmont,” he remarked aloud with a smile, feeling very pleased with himself at having recalled that fact.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Kieran paused before a room from which the muffled voice of a man with a thick Orlesian accent emerged. “Somebody? Anybody?”

It occurred to him from the room’s exterior and position in the corridor it was the empress’s quarters; another place he followed his mother into once as she escorted Celene into it two nights prior—however briefly. Though Morrigan always instructed him to particularly mind his business in Orlais and advised against ferreting about in others’ rooms—chiefly at night—he wasn’t about to ignore a plea for aid. It was likely another member of royalty, perhaps one of Celene’s close relatives in need of help. With as much caution as he could muster, Kieran gradually opened the door to the room, slinking in to find a drawing-room in which the fireplace had been lit.

There he found a man trussed to a grand bed by his ankles and wrists, stark naked save for his helmet.

Kieran turned smoothly back out the door.

Perhaps following his mother’s advice would be the best course of action.


End file.
